QUICK’N DIRTY: LIVE FROM BERLIN
Russia’s invasion of Ukraine did not simply impact one country, but both. Margarita and Yuri are two Russians faced with unenviable options: fight in the war, exile themselves, or be arrested on behalf of conviction. What occurs on the bigscreen is a dialogue between protagonist and audience as to what constitutes homelife, as observed by characters caught between lands they cannot claim as their very own.
A Russian Winter is a gorgeously filmed work: striking reds dot the backdrop, as women watch the news in front of them. As with every civilisation – whether it’s at conflict or otherwise – citizens create their own reality. One character onscreen reverts to nostalgia, endlessly repeating clips of a guitar band that represented liberation in 2003. Two interviewee participants are filmed in green, suggesting an eagerness to embrace nature at its fullest. This use of stylised colours is striking, recalling Three Colours Blue (Krzysztof Kieślowski, 1993) as it does so. Each character is extraordinary in their own peculiar way. They have their facial and bodily tics, alerting them and the viewers to possible dangers lurking around the corners. Behind those tear-stained eyes are moments of tremendous fragility from the people speaking to the camera; smiles can only hide so much.
Snippets of dialogue populate the place in this abstract documentary. “You become schizophrenic”, says a lady on a computer screen. “It’s unhealthy for you”, she adds. Words trickle in and out of the movie, and sometimes it’s difficult to know which voice belongs to what body. It’s a neat trick, suggesting that the trauma is felt universally. One long-haired rocker tells the camera that “everybody was in a state of panic” at the beginning of the invasion, guilt trickling down his face. At another stage, director Patric Chiha applies a blue filter to the camera, swallowing the protagonists in sepia, oceanic tones.
These talking heads are brave, not just for the content, but that the Russian government could use these confessionals against them in the future. Still, there is joy to be found: Yuri runs next to a trolley, chortling as he does so. This is captured by camcorder, proving the band of dissidents resisting the Russian government are going about their days guerilla style. Bathetically, Yuri contemplates his financial difficulties on a terrain dotted with grass. Geography follows turmoil, anywhere these people go.
As a documentary, A Russian Winter enters into a marriage that opts for style and purpose, tying both well under one ribbon. What could have been drab to watch is genuinely impressive to sit through, incorporating splashes of colours to the lens. Immersed in the madness of the movie, the central characters dress up in all sorts of madcap outfits, aping British psychedelia from the 1960s. They may be directionless and homeless, but that won’t stop them having a barrel of laughs.
This impressive movie is not without some small however discernible flaws. There are directorial interpolations which are wacky and don’t necessarily aid the cause of the movie, and some of the fast-paced edits are at odds with the movie’s holistic pace.
Where the feature is at its most artful is the demonstration of landscape, transforming the humans from main focus to minute pawns. Wars begin and end, sorrow creeps into the lexicon and edifices crumble beneath the shifting influence of time. Behind it all is a blue world that existed before the arrival of humans, and will endure long after they have become extinct. Humanity, inhumanity, lovelessness and love are all part of life, and all play their part in this work.
A Russian Winter just premiered in the Panorama section of the 76th Berlinale.
